


Persuasive Actions

by softboypassing



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Face-Fucking, M/M, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Porn With Plot, Prequel, Some liberties taken with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25005496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softboypassing/pseuds/softboypassing
Summary: “I’m sure you caught his meaning when he said he would institute reforms that would be beneficial to us. Besides—” He leaned in, flashing a smile. “—admit it, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the sound of ‘Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeyer.’”“It has a nice ring to it,” Mittermeyer said, grinning despite himself. “But so does ‘Marshal Oskar von Reuenthal.’”-------------------------------------------------------------Mittermeyer is rescued from prison by Reuenthal with the help of Admiral Reinhard von Müsel, after which he is presented with a choice.
Relationships: Wolfgang Mittermeyer/Oskar von Reuenthal
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started watching this show after classes ended and I had nothing else to do but sit at home, and after developing a sudden obsession with this anime and its characters I started writing this as (a) a way of doing something more than just passively binge-watching it and (b) a coping method for the fact that i haven't seen my partner in meatspace since March. you know how it is. 
> 
> Comments etc. are hugely appreciated! You can find me on tumblr @transhamlet.

Oskar von Reuenthal waited outside the admiral’s office on the _Brunhilde,_ his body ramrod-straight and patient. His face was settled into its accustomed lines of perfect stoicism and composure. The only thing that belied his emotional state were a few papers in his right hand, crumpled from his grip.

Eventually, the door opened, and a harried-looking commander stormed out, glaring at Reuenthal before marching off down the corridor. He didn’t fully close the door behind him, and Reuenthal hovered on the threshold. There was a quiet conversation happening in the office, and he could catch a few snatches of it.

“What a waste of my time.” The admiral—the notes of disdain in his voice were clear. “Do I have another meeting now?”

The person who responded spoke more softly, but Reuenthal thought he heard his own name being said.

“Ah, him,” the admiral said, now sounding thoughtful, even—if he dared hope—pleased. “Let’s see what he has for me. Call him in.”

The panel on the wall beeped, and the guard nodded impassively at him. Reuenthal pushed the door open and entered. The office was not large, with a pair of couches, a desk, and a window, richly decorated with gilded detailing and faux-wood paneling in the classic Imperial style. Two aides were standing by the door, watching the inhabitants of the room. A tall man with dense curls of stunningly red hair—Reuenthal recognized him as Captain Siegfried Kircheis, the admiral’s second-in-command—perched on the edge of the desk, looking at the man who was gazing out the window at the sea of stars beyond. Admiral Reinhard von Müsel.

Reuenthal crossed the room and saluted before the admiral. Müsel turned, and smiled, almost affectionately, at him. Reuenthal heard the aides mutter something behind him, and he smiled to himself.

“Rear Admiral von Reuenthal,” Müsel said. “Your visit is most welcome. May I offer you some tea? Kircheis and I were about to sit down, and we would appreciate your joining us.”

“Gladly, Your Excellency.” Reuenthal dipped his head respectfully, and Müsel nodded at one of the aides, who slipped to the sideboard and poured three cups of tea. As Reuenthal accepted his, he continued, “First, I must admit that I did not request this audience merely for the pleasure of having tea with you both, although I am honored by your invitation. There are… certain matters about our business on Ultima Thule I would like to discuss.” He shot a glance at the aides—the pair had the snobbish look of Odin bureaucrats. As little as he cared about the opinions of the landed nobility, Reuenthal knew that, in this case, there was far more at risk than his own reputation. “Privately, if possible.”

Müsel nodded and waved a hand at the aides. Reuenthal turned to watch them shut the door behind them. When he looked back at his two superiors, Kircheis hadn’t moved a muscle. The admiral was still staring at him intently, his lips pressed together, as if daring Reuenthal to comment on the other man’s presence. Reuenthal said nothing, hoping that would at least raise him incrementally in the admiral’s estimation. The two gave each other another look, and then Müsel sat down on one of the couches, Kircheis beside him. Reuenthal followed their lead and sat opposite the two, trying to surreptitiously smooth out the papers he’d brought with him in his lap.

“As you asked of me, I have gathered a few documents pertaining to the situation which we might find necessary.” Reuenthal took a sip of his tea—he would have preferred coffee, but it was a rich, earthy red herbal blend, and quite good regardless—and handed the admiral two of the three printouts. “The first one is Mittermeyer’s original incident report, and the second is his arrest record.”

Kircheis leaned over Müsel’s shoulder to read. Reuenthal didn’t fail to notice how close his cheek came to the admiral’s mane of golden hair. Their faces darkened as the admiral flipped through the papers. Only a few weeks ago, it had become public that during the territorial skirmishes following the Sixth Battle of Iserlohn, as the Alliance fleets made a few last-ditch attempts to protect their settlements closest to the mouth of the corridor, several officers in then-Commodore Wolfgang Mittermeyer’s fleet had disobeyed his orders not to harm the civilian populace, and he had punished them severely, as was his right. This should have raised few eyebrows with the admiralty, if not for the fact that Mittermeyer was from a commoner’s family, and a few of the subordinates who he had ordered executed were part of powerful noble families, including a man who was related to Prince Braunschweig, the Kaiser’s son-in-law. The fact that Mittermeyer, like Reuenthal, had been promoted to Rear Admiral for his conduct in the battle upon his return to Odin held no weight with the High Admirals once Braunschweig had raised a fuss, and he had been removed from his command and thrown in the military prison at Ultima Thule.

“What a mockery of justice,” Müsel sneered as he finished. “These nobles have lived so long in privilege that the moment they are held accountable for anything, they lose their minds and lash out at those who hold them to the same standard that they hold the rest of us.” He momentarily re-composed himself and shuffled the pages back into their original order.

“I assume that last paper is a personal letter,” Kircheis said, straightening up. There was pity and tenderness in his large blue eyes.

Reuenthal nodded, and looked down at the scrawled writing. Mittermeyer hated typing his letters, he knew, and he could picture him hunched over a tablet, frantically scribbling out this letter, this heartbreakingly desperate plea for Reuenthal’s help. He couldn’t look at the page for long without his stomach wrenching with sorrow and rage, and he tried to nonchalantly stare out the window. The stars impassively slid past as the ship sailed on its steady course. He could feel the familiar throb of the engines through the soles of his boots, and the distant near-imperceptible hum of the stardrive as it dug into the fabric of space to propel them forward, towards Ultima Thule, towards Mittermeyer. He took several deep breaths. Müsel and Kircheis didn’t ask to see the letter.

“It is our duty to fight against the injustices of the Goldenbaum nobility whenever possible, but I must point out that this may be more challenging than we expect. There is a chance that I will not be able to help you—I may be ordered not to interfere,” the admiral said, not unkindly. “What would you do then, Reuenthal?”

“I would get him out myself. Whatever it takes,” Reuenthal said, low, still not looking at them. He felt wild at the thought.

“So he is that close of a friend.”

“He is. If I may be so bold, he is to me what he—” He turned away from the window and nodded at Kircheis. “—is to you.”

They both exchanged another glance. Kircheis reached over and put his hand on Müsel’s knee. Reuenthal felt something hot rise in his chest. It was jealousy, he realized after a moment of taking stock of the feeling—jealousy that they could be so _outward_ with their affections. No matter how obvious their relationship seemed (and, gods, it was obvious to anyone with eyes), no one dared criticize them. Whether that was Müsel’s position, or his sister’s influence, or sheer force of personality, Reuenthal couldn’t say, but he wanted to have it. To stand on the bridge of a ship, to go everywhere, with Mittermeyer at his side and no authorities above them that could judge or separate them—he wanted it with a fervor that surprised him.

“I see,” said the admiral. His pale eyes looked distant as he sipped at his tea. “Thank you for bringing these to me, Reuenthal. I am sure they will be useful when we reach Ultima Thule—five days, right, Kircheis?” The redheaded man nodded. Müsel stood, and Reuenthal quickly followed suit. “Keep looking for whatever information you can find about the arrest. Kircheis and I will search as well. I can only hope that our efforts will be rewarded.”

Reuenthal bowed deeply. “I do as well, Your Excellency. I am indebted to you for this.”

Kircheis gave him a last, warm smile, and the admiral went to sit back behind his desk. Reuenthal took this as a dismissal, and saluted the two one last time and stepped out of the office. He tried not to walk too fast as he headed for his guest quarters, but Mittermeyer’s letter was being crushed in his hand. _Don’t worry, Wolf. I’m coming. And I have the greatest power in the Empire at my back._

* * *

Wolfgang Mittermeyer had only a few things sustaining him in prison, but they were powerful things that fed an unquenchable internal fire. The first was working out.

At some point in the military prison’s history, some unexpected budgetary windfall had resulted in the building of a relatively well-stocked gym. It was nowhere near as lavish as some of the ones he’d frequented on Odin, but it had a good selection of stationary exercise machines and weights (chained to the wall against inmates potentially using them as weapons). Of course, he had no way to practice his hand-to-hand combat skills apart from starting fights with other prisoners, and he had no intention of doing that if he could help it. Mittermeyer had a long-standing philosophy of avoiding drawing attention to himself in tricky situations, which he was abiding to now. Although access to the gym was often arbitrarily restricted by the guards, he spent as much time as he could there. He would distract himself with long hours on the spin bikes or treadmills or rowing machines, wearing a VR headset when they were available (rarely), until he grew too tired to think or feel, and then would drag himself back to his cell to collapse on his bunk. He tried to avoid doing this too often, since it felt unsustainable, but it was hard to pull himself away from exercising when there was nothing else to do.

The second thing sustaining him was his rage against the nobility and military command for imprisoning him. Most people in the prison on Ultima Thule were enlisted soldiers, arrested for battlefield crimes that didn’t warrant execution but were unsightly enough to merit punishment. There were, however, a few dozen officers, and they recognized Mittermeyer for one of their own quickly. At first, he welcomed their attempts to reach out to him. But when they sat down with him at mealtime to regale him with stories of their embezzlements and petty treacheries, he soon realized he disdained them as much as the thieves and rapists among the inmates. Eventually, he had to flatly tell them that he had executed one of his subordinates for war crimes—crimes which, he was quick to point out, were not much greater than those of the officers around him. They left him alone after that.

The third and final thing was a letter that he had printed out and, for a while, taped to the wall above his bunk. It was Reuenthal’s response to the frantic letter he’d written before being shipped off to Ultima Thule. He read it every night, trying to soak in his lover’s presence through his tight, restrained handwriting.

_Dear Mittermeyer,_

_I would like to say that I cannot believe this has happened to you, but that would be a lie. The corruption and prejudice of some of our exalted superiors knows no bounds. Obviously, I trust your account of the situation, and I hope I am not the first to say that you were completely justified to act as you did._

_Luckily, there may be a way out for you yet. I know we have discussed Admiral Reinhard von Müsel before, and I have come to the conclusion that he is likely to be sympathetic to your plight. He may be able to pull some strings to get this overturned. I am currently working on getting myself an introduction—so far a challenging process, as nearly everyone with any clout in the Admiralty considers him an irritating brat. Most of this, I’m sure, is just the usual resentment of their Excellencies towards genuine talent, compounded by his extreme youth and family connections. In any case, I won’t let their jealousy be an obstacle, and will obtain Admiral Müsel’s aid if I have to knock on his door in the dead of night to get it. Ultima Thule is only a week away for a single ship, and by the end of the month I will be there to personally drag you out of that hell-hole._

_In other news, Bittenfeld is currently also on leave on Odin, and is his usual overeager self. I’ve managed to rope him into practicing with me, with the dual goals of keeping in shape and maybe instilling some more tactical sense into him, but so far I have only achieved the former. Here I must admit that my motivations for helping you are somewhat selfish—you are too good of a sparring partner to let languish in a military prison. ~~~~_

_There are many, many more interesting things that I would like to tell you about, but they must wait until we see each other in person. If I recall, it was your turn to provide the wine for dinner, and I do hope that you make a better choice than you did last time._

_Yours,_

_Oskar von Reuenthal_

The casual optimism of Reuenthal’s letter broke him sometimes—how could he talk so confidently about their next choice of wine?—but it started to seep into Mittermeyer’s thinking nonetheless. He ticked off the days in his head, imagining his ship coming closer and closer to Ultima Thule.

At first, he kept the letter on display near his bed, being lucky enough to not have a cellmate. But the guards could see it too, and one night, as he was looking at it again, he heard them stop in their patrol down the hallway and bang on the wall.

“Hey, pretty-boy Admiral. What’s that you’re reading?” The sneered insult, weak though it was, stung Mittermeyer, and he resolutely tried to ignore it. “Letter from your wife?”

“Nah, I got a look at it when mail security checked it. Apparently it’s from his friend, some other admiral. He promises to pull some strings and get him out.”

The first guard laughed. It was an ugly noise. “Oh, of course he does. Hey, you know what’s going to happen, you little cocksucker?” His voice got louder, as if he was leaning up close to the bars. “Your ‘friend’ is going to pretty quickly realize that you’ve been buried _deep_ , and it will be far easier for him to just forget about you and leave you rotting in here.” When Mittermeyer didn’t react outwardly, the guard made a disappointed sound in his throat and stepped back. “What a fucking sissy.”

At that, Mittermeyer flinched, and could no longer restrain himself from leaping up and lunging towards the bars. He wasn’t sure what he meant to do, but was quickly stopped by the jarring buzz of the electric field around them and fell back. The guards only snickered and walked on, leaving him panting and twitching with rage and pain on the floor of his cell. After that, he was sure to keep the letter hidden under his mattress, and only brought it out occasionally.

So the weeks passed, and Mittermeyer grew increasingly impatient and despondent by turns. He started to worry that maybe the guard had been right, that Reuenthal had left him. It was an irrational fear, he was sure, but he couldn’t keep the possibility out of his thoughts as the days went on with no word from the outside. There was a sort of all-consuming blackness at the very edges of his mind, and he flung himself more and more into exercising to stave it off. Failing that, he devoured the mediocre contents of the prison library, or paced the length of his cell until his legs wore out. He had less and less tolerance for the insults of the guards and other inmates, and with his shortening fuse he couldn’t pull himself away from real physical confrontations.

It was after about a month had passed since his arrest that Mittermeyer’s fraying routine changed. The free period after what passed for dinner had just begun, and he was waiting alone outside the gym for the guards to open it. Their expressions were suspicious, and Mittermeyer was mentally sizing them up in case they decided he had provoked them, but any tension was immediately deflated by the appearance of one of the warden’s aides. The man, a rail-thin officer with a gaunt face and colorless hair, glanced at Mittermeyer, and then told the guards, “This one needs to come with me. Commander Orff’s orders.”

The guards shrugged. “You’re free to take him,” said the most outspoken, the man who’d called him a sissy once.

“He needs to be accompanied by at least one guard when leaving the main complex. Are you all too stupid to know your own regulations?” the aide said, ignoring Mittermeyer, who felt like the floor was dropping out beneath him, but very slowly.

“We’re supposed to be unlocking the gym,” another guard said sulkily. “There needs to be at least three of us there to supervise it. If anyone went with you, we’d have to wait to get someone else here to open it up.”

“I don’t care. Commander Orff wants him transferred now.”

The hierarchy of the prison, though often violent, was inflexible—the commander and his aides were solidly above the regular guards, and the inmates were dehumanized by both alike. After a few minutes of grumbling, the guards cast out one of their number to go with the aide. Mittermeyer’s head was swimming as he was prodded through hallways he hadn’t set foot in since his arrest. He told himself to be realistic; surely Orff was calling for him as a result of the fight he’d been in last night that had landed another prisoner in the infirmary. He couldn’t let himself hope. At some point, they reached a checkpoint of a sort, and he was handcuffed before they proceeded. Mittermeyer tried to keep track of where he was being herded, but the walls and doors seem to be miles distant and he couldn’t focus on anything. His blood was pulsing loudly in his ears. Both of the options he sensed before him were overwhelming—either he was about to undergo some kind of torture, even execution, or Reuenthal had made good on his promise.

They came to a bleak, empty corridor, doors set in regular intervals along each side. The aide pointed to one, seemingly at random, and he was marched up to it. The guard opened it and stepped back. An even smaller and danker cell than the one he’d just left yawned before him, and his heart sank.

“You’re to wait here,” the aide told him, and ungently pushed him by the shoulder towards the open door.

Mittermeyer resisted. Anger and despair together made him bold. “Wait here? Can I ask until when? Or why?”

“The commander did not deign to inform me.” The aide pushed him again, harder, and, unable to balance himself with his wrists still cuffed, he stumbled across the threshold. The door slammed behind him as soon as he was inside. Mittermeyer heard the beep and heavy click of the lock before he could turn around.

The only illumination in the cell was a tiny sliver of a window, high on the far wall. The sun had already set, and it only cast a faint acidic shine into the room from the distant electric lights outside, but it was enough for Mittermeyer to find his way to the low cot and sit down, slowly. He felt as if his limbs were weighted down with lead.

 _Oskar, I hope you get here soon._ He rested his head against the cold concrete wall. Thunder crackled somewhere, far-off and outside. Raindrops began to tap against the window, first slow, then escalating into an incessant drumming. He would not sleep that night.


	2. Chapter 2

Mittermeyer opened his eyes to harsh light and the bitter scent of disinfectant. He was lying on a bed that was only marginally more comfortable than the last one, the one in the solitary confinement cell. The air was cool on his bare chest. His mind felt gauzy and unfocused, and his memory was slow to return, but when it did, he sat up immediately, his muscles protesting.

A nurse, hearing him sit up, appeared from behind the translucent curtain screening Mittermeyer from the rest of the infirmary. She gave him a dispassionate, appraising glance, and briskly came to the side of the bed, studying his back.

“How do you feel? Any pain?”

“Just a little stiff,” he said, and was surprised to find himself telling the truth. Although he was certain the wounds had not healed that quickly, physically he didn’t feel at all as if he had just received a brutal whipping.

“Good to know that those painkillers are working. We’ve done what we can, but with a burn like that, the most we can do here is anaesthetize it and let the body heal it on its own. Just try not to aggravate it, if you can.” The nurse clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Those energy whips are truly excessive. Eyr knows why they haven’t been banned yet.” Mittermeyer got the sense she was talking to herself more than him, so he didn’t respond. She turned sharply on her heel and left. Her heard her talking to someone behind the partition, informing them that he was awake and ready to be discharged.

“That is excellent news, Frau Kehlmann,” said someone, in a youthful, musical voice. “I will inform the warden at once.” He heard footsteps, leaving, and then a door opening and closing. Then more footsteps, coming towards his bed. Mittermeyer lifted his head, abruptly daring to hope again. Maybe he hadn’t imagined the faces of his rescuers, before his adrenaline receded and the full pain of his wounds had hit him. Maybe he hadn’t imagined—

“Oskar,” he said, and stood.

Mittermeyer felt dazed with happiness. Although suddenly his brain was buzzing and his vision mazed, he could have recognized the man who had just slipped past the curtains to stand before him anywhere. He was almost glad of his shocked state, since he felt too faint to do anything drastic and he wasn’t sure if he could have held himself back otherwise. Reuenthal’s face seemed even more coldly beautiful than he remembered. All of the gorgeous severity in his posture dissipated before it reached the real tenderness in the creases around his eyes, and the small, triumphant smile on his lips was the best thing Mittermeyer had seen in months.

“I’m glad you can stand on your own two feet,” Reuenthal said, soft. “Carrying you out of here would certainly satisfy me, but you might find it undignified.”

Mittermeyer felt a broad smile involuntarily breaking across his face at the sound of Reuenthal’s deep, familiar voice, with an undercurrent of flirtation beneath his ironic tones. “So, you made it here.”

Reuenthal nodded, his two-toned eyes warm. He placed his hand on Mittermeyer’s bare shoulder. The feeling of Reuenthal’s cool fingers on his skin sent a pleasurable shock through his body. “Admiral Müsel is fetching Commander Orff so that your release can be made official. I also took the liberty of retrieving your uniform for you, if you’d like to change before we leave,” Reuenthal said, lifting a duffel bag in his other hand.

“ _Gods,_ yes,” Mittermeyer said, a laugh of desperate relief bubbling up from his lips. “I can’t believe… Thank you.” He touched Reuenthal’s hand on his shoulder, briefly, before taking the bag.

“There will be more than enough time later to express your gratitude in full,” Reuenthal said, low. He held Mittermeyer’s gaze for a long minute, still smiling. Unable to speak, Mittermeyer stared back. He felt as if he’d never really _seen_ Reuenthal’s eyes before—something about the angle of the harsh fluorescent light made the blue of his left, and the brown, so deep it was almost black, of his right eye, especially striking. His cheeks were starting to hurt from how hard he was grinning. Eventually, Reuenthal turned away and ducked out, leaving the duffel bag. Mittermeyer regretted his absence for a half-second, but the nurse was surely still there, and after all Reuenthal had seen him naked many times now. He changed gladly, discarding the dirty prison jumpsuit and ill-fitting sneakers in a pile on the floor. Reuenthal was sitting on a bench that looked as uncomfortable as the rest of the prison furniture, and he stood with a smile as soon as he saw Mittermeyer.

“That’s much better,” he murmured, almost inaudible, and led Mittermeyer to the door. While he opened the door, Mittermeyer paused at a dirty mirror hanging on the infirmary wall. His hair was dirty and unkempt, there were frightening bags under his eyes, and he’d clearly lost weight from how the jacket hung loose around his midsection. It was a wonder, he thought fleetingly, that Reuenthal had been so happy to see him in this state. But somehow just wearing the uniform grounded him. He felt more right, more like himself, than he had ever since his arrest. The black with its silver details was admittedly flattering, despite the poor fit. It was good. He took a deep breath and followed Reuenthal out the door.

Outside the infirmary was a dingy waiting room, the walls tiled in a shade of sea-green that clashed horribly with the fraying orange cushions adorning the squat chairs in their rows. None of the four people already there, perhaps understandably, had chosen to sit down. Mittermeyer knew Commander Orff, of course, a heavy-jowled, middle-aged man with a permanent scowl, but he looked more drained than the last time he’d seen him. All of his aides looked much the same, and both of the two here wore blasters prominently on their hips. The three prison officials were all glaring at the fourth man in the room, a young man wearing the elaborate chestpiece of an admiral. With his youth, and his waves of golden hair, he could only be Admiral Reinhard von Müsel himself. Reuenthal saluted him crisply, and Mittermeyer, nervous, followed suit a moment later. Orff saw them, stopped staring at the admiral, and glanced down at a page he was gripping in his hand.

“As of this day, the 19th of June in the 486th year of His Majesty the Kaiser’s Galactic Imperium, Rear Admiral Wolfgang Mittermeyer is officially pardoned and restored to his proper rank, and his release from the Ultima Thule prison is to be carried out immediately,” he read tonelessly. “I hope that satisfies Your Excellency.”

Müsel said nothing, just inclined his head augustly. Mittermeyer bowed deeply to the admiral—his body felt stiff still, and he wasn’t sure that he would easily be able to get up again if he went to one knee.

“Y-your Excellency,” he stammered. His mouth was dry. “I am forever in your debt for this. Thank you.” Müsel smiled and brushed his hair back from his forehead with a graceful flick of his hand.

“You should be thanking your friend here. It was he, in fact, who persuaded me so eloquently on your behalf. But I am glad to be of help in rectifying this… deplorable situation.” His voice was the musical one from the infirmary, lilting and almost gentle as he looked at Mittermeyer. “It will be evening by the time we return to my flagship. Would you and Reuenthal care to join me and my adjutant for dinner then?”

“I would be honored, Your Excellency.” He was on firm ground again—not quite familiar, but he knew where to put his feet. Besides, with Reuenthal standing beside him again, he felt as if he could contend with whatever the universe was going to throw at him.

“I am very glad to hear it, Rear Admiral. There is a car waiting outside to take us to the _Brunhilde_. Rear Admiral Reuenthal, will you show him out? I have a few more things I would like to discuss with Commander Orff,” Müsel said. The gentleness had gone out of his voice as he rounded on the warden, and there was a hint of vicious steel beneath his fine features. Reuenthal bowed and turned slowly for the door, clearly reluctant to leave the admiral, but Mittermeyer took his elbow discreetly and pulled him away. The prison waiting room with its ugly furniture and buzzing lights was growing stifling, and he thought if he spent another minute inside he might faint again.

Stepping out into the hot air of Ultima Thule, a few minutes later, almost overwhelmed Mittermeyer once more. He followed Reuenthal to the waiting car as if on autopilot, blinking in the over-bright sunlight and stopping when another officer got out and stood before them.

“Captain Kircheis,” Reuenthal said, saluting. The captain saluted back. He was a tall man, taller even than Reuenthal by several centimeters, and his hair was a brilliant, deep red. He would have been imposing if not for the honest and kind expression on his face. Mittermeyer stared as unobtrusively as he could for a moment, and then remembered where he’d seen him before: in the halls of the Ministry of Military Affairs, perhaps a year ago, following a few steps behind Admiral Müsel.

“Rear Admiral Reuenthal, and Rear Admiral Mittermeyer, I presum ~~e~~. Is Lord Reinhard still inside?”

“He’s coming shortly—I believe he was haranguing Commander Orff about that baron. Probably, ensuring we don’t face charges for assaulting a noble.”

Kircheis smiled fondly. “He would do that. You two are welcome to sit in the car while I wait for him.”

Reuenthal, smiling, made an exaggeratedly chivalrous bow, gesturing Mittermeyer towards the open door. Mittermeyer shook his head at his theatrics, but climbed into the car first regardless. Reuenthal followed, shutting the door behind him to close them both alone inside the cool, shaded interior. The two of them were sitting only centimeters apart. Mittermeyer wrestled with his emotions for an interminable half a second, and then flung his arms around Reuenthal’s neck and pulled him into a squeezing embrace. Reuenthal reciprocated immediately, wrapping his fingers in Mittermeyer’s hair and his other arm around his waist. The two held each other close, their bodies pressed together on the seat and their legs awkwardly tangled. Mittermeyer leaned his face against Reuenthal’s shoulder and breathed in his scent, a smell like ozone and gunmetal and snow that was so uniquely _him_.

“God, Oskar,” he whispered. His voice was breaking. “I missed you.”

“Me too.” Reuenthal rested his chin on top of his head. Mittermeyer felt his body relaxing with a warmth it hadn’t felt in forever, and he practically melted into Reuenthal’s arms. He was _safe_ —he was with Reuenthal again—and then the car door opened.

Mittermeyer jumped, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the roof, and extricated himself from Reuenthal. It was Kircheis and Admiral Müsel. Trying not to outwardly panic, he shoved himself as close to the opposite door as he could. His heart was hammering again, and he was nauseous with sudden fear. The two officers sat across from him and Reuenthal, and he cautiously scrutinized their expressions. He couldn’t see any way that he could pass off that hug as just an expression of platonic gratitude.

Surprisingly, Müsel and Kircheis seemed unfazed. Reuenthal only sat back and smirked at Mittermeyer—but he sometimes had a strange lack of fear when it came to such things. It was only when the car pulled away from the prison, and Kircheis began to apologetically explain that it was a long drive to the flagship, that Mittermeyer realized that they truly didn’t seem to care, and finally started to relax again. In fact, weren’t the admiral and his subordinate sitting unusually close themselves? Their knees were almost touching. Mittermeyer looked over at Reuenthal, who gave him a reassuring nod. Maybe he’d meant Müsel was a sympathetic party in more ways than one. He settled back to watch the landscape out the window.

Ultima Thule was an unremarkable, sun-bathed planet, with most of its single supercontinent covered with an arid desert. Closer to the poles, there were sparse and humid forests, and the planet’s small military base (not much more than an outpost) was in one of these forests near the south pole. The prison sprawled into the desert, an hour or so away from the outskirts of the forest. Mittermeyer watched with growing relief as the scrub and rocks gave way to the strange, wispy trees. Scraps of fog were moving over the scorching blue sky, remnants of the morning’s thunderstorm extinguished and dissolved by the heat of the desert. They passed over a series of low wooded hills as they made their way to the airfield. The road wound by overgrown manors from a past failed attempt at colonization, their austere marble facades in the process of being swallowed by a refreshingly green moss. Müsel and Kircheis kept up a light conversation, but he wasn’t paying attention. They didn’t try to bring him into their discussion, which he was thankful for—he was too hungry and exhausted to try to keep up any kind of formal dialogue, and the muscles of his back ached despite the painkillers. He could feel Reuenthal’s eyes on him and took comfort in his silent attention.

The broad disk of the sun had slid behind the crowns of the trees by the time they reached the airfield. As they circled around to the entrance, Mittermeyer caught glimpses of a huge white hull through the branches and sucked in his breath. If _that_ was the admiral’s flagship, he would at least be leaving in this planet in far greater style than when he arrived. At the elaborate wrought-iron gate (also covered in bright green lichen), the car slowed, and Müsel rolled down his window to show the guard his credentials. They were waved on through, and parked and exited shortly. It was there, in the setting sun of Ultima Thule, that Mittermeyer got his first good look at the _Brunhilde._

Seen from the ground, it looked immense. He was sure that it wasn’t, in reality, much larger than the usual Imperial cruiser, but the simplicity of its shape coupled with his low perspective made it feel impossibly large. Rather than the blocky design of most ships, it was all long, smooth curves. The lines of its silhouette swept forward above him, culminating in a bladelike point at the prow. The metal of its main hull was colored a cool white, so pristine that it appeared to glow in the fading light. The dark openings for the guns and engines, and the raw lines of exposed tubing, only accented its minimalist grandeur. It was like an abstract sculpture wrought on a massive, destructive scale. The perfect flagship for Admiral Müsel, he thought, glancing over at the admiral as he approached the walkway. The man, too, seemed possessed of his own luminosity and pared-down, axe-sharp, beauty. Mittermeyer shivered a little bit, in equal parts anticipation and fear, at the thought of these two weapons being brought to bear on an enemy.

* * *

The stateroom on the _Brunhilde_ was relatively modest, but it still seemed absurdly large with only the four of them at one end of the long hardwood table. Admiral von Müsel sat at the head of the table, with Commander Kircheis on his right and Reuenthal and Mittermeyer on his left. The meal itself was surprisingly good, with incredibly fresh fruits and meat—clearly, the admiral’s quartermaster had taken advantage of the large farms in the north of the planet during the time that he, Kircheis, and Reuenthal had spent arguing with Commander Orff. 

Their hosts, commendably, did not press Mittermeyer for details on his experiences, and spent the meal discussing tactics and his military experience. It seemed that they had followed his and Reuenthal’s accomplishments closely, since the swiftness of their ascension through the ranks was surpassed only by Müsel himself. Mittermeyer was impressed and enthused by the admiral’s incisive and careful questions, and by the time they reached dessert, he had pushed aside most of the dishes in order to explain his strategy from his latest campaign on the table, with used forks and knives standing in for the various divisions.

“Impressive,” said Müsel finally. He was leaning back in his chair, his long-lashed eyes heavily lidded, languid and imperious. Despite his youth, he was really strikingly beautiful. The soft shine of his golden hair, the glacial sparkle in his eyes, the delicate curve of his pink lips—he looked like the refined portraits of decadent emperors and kaisers that Mittermeyer remembered being inexplicably drawn to when he visited art museums with his family as a child. “I see Rear Admiral von Reuenthal was right to speak so highly of your abilities.”

Mittermeyer smiled and glanced at Reuenthal, who had unexpectedly flushed. His voice, though, was smooth and satisfied. “He was first in his class. Of course he’s talented.”

“As were you.”

Reuenthal inclined his head slightly at the admiral’s compliment, and took a sip of his wine. Müsel looked at Kircheis. They seemed like they were silently communicating with each other, an unintelligible conversation somehow contained in their glittering eyes. Mittermeyer, beginning to feel awkward, sat down to drink his wine as well (a toothachingly sweet white). He looked to Reuenthal for support, but he was staring at the admiral and his adjutant with a piercing fixation, only briefly and reluctantly shifting his gaze to give Mittermeyer a meaningful glance that he couldn’t interpret. The room was silent as a servant entered to clear away the dishes from the meal, leaving only the salt-cellar that had stood in for Mittermeyer’s flagship _Westberlin_ in the center of the table.

“Rear Admiral Mittermeyer,” Müsel began, eventually looking back at the two of them. “This may seem forward, but I wanted to tell you that once we return to Hauptplanet Odin, I will be putting a request for you to be transferred to my command, along with Reuenthal. That is, if you will accept, of course.”

“Your Excellency,” Mittermeyer said, shocked. “I can think of no better way to repay my debt to you. I would be honored to serve under one such as yourself.”

Müsel smiled. “I am glad to hear it. However, what I would really like to ask you is loyalty of a greater kind than that owed to a commander by his subordinate. Something that Reuenthal promised me when he first came to me to ask for my help.”

“What do you mean?” Mittermeyer looked at Reuenthal again. He was still only gazing at the admiral, with a shine in his mismatched eyes somewhere between rapt and raptorial.

“If you were a doctor, and met with a patient who had a tumor in his brain—a tumor that would not only eventually kill him, but also change his behavior, and cause him to lash out and hurt others—would you not intend to operate on that patient as soon as you could, and remove the tumor?” Mittermeyer couldn’t come up with a response to that, and the silence in the stateroom grew heavy as the admiral sat pensive.

“I have a sister,” Müsel continued eventually. “I have not seen her more than once in a year since I was eleven years old. The Kaiser saw her while driving through the countryside, and decided that he wanted her as his new concubine. She was fifteen. This is only a symptom of the greater problem, and it is a problem that I intend to eradicate.” There was a sudden fervor in his demeanor as he leaned forward. “The Goldenbaum dynasty and its parasitic nobility is a cancer at the heart of the Galactic Empire. Long ago, I swore to wrest the universe out of their hands, but it is not something I—we—can do alone. Mittermeyer, I hope I am right in guessing that there is little love lost between you and the nobility, especially after this; Reuenthal, I know your feelings on the current regime well.” He stood, and extended a hand towards them. “What do you say? Will you follow me? Will you help me to unite humanity and build a new Empire?”

Mittermeyer was speechless for a long time. The idea was staggering to him. Although his history was shaky, he knew there had never been a single successful coup against the Goldenbaums in the whole history of the Empire, and certainly not one carried out by a nineteen-year-old minor noble. And Müsel was saying it as if it were a foregone conclusion!

“How?” he eventually managed. The question was rudely informal, so he lamely followed it with a hesitant, “Your Excellency.” The admiral, however, didn’t seem to care about the impropriety.

“I cannot pretend to know what will happen in the future, and so my plans are not yet specific. I do know that for now, I mean to gather as much military power as I can in order to put myself in an ideal position to strike at the Kaiser—a strategy that, as you can see, has gone well so far. However, to continue on my current trajectory, I will next have to crush the rebels, decisively and unprecedentedly. I need officers for that undertaking, if nothing else.

“It goes without saying that I will make every effort to reward your loyalty, no matter where the situation goes. I have no intention of keeping the glory of victory to myself. In the long run, there are many changes and reforms I hope to enact in the government, and I am sure that some of them will be particularly beneficial to you. You should not see this, either, as a way of paying off your debt to me for helping you in this matter. I am seeking an alliance, not a transaction. The values exchanged would be drastically unequal in any case.”

At that, Mittermeyer looked down at his hands. “I’m not sure about that. You saved my life getting me out of that prison, and not just from the baron,” he said, slowly.

Reuenthal nodded in agreement next to him. Kircheis had been hanging on the admiral’s words, gazing at him, but he turned to look at Mittermeyer and Reuenthal then. He smiled at them, a little sadly.

Emboldened by the warmth in Kircheis’ eyes, Mittermeyer asked cautiously, “Do you need our answer immediately, Your Excellency?”

Müsel looked as if he was about to say yes, leaning towards them hungrily, but Kircheis interjected, “No. Lord Reinhard will be submitting the transfer request when we reach Odin, so you have until then to decide.”

“Of course not,” agreed Müsel, after a moment’s hesitation. He relaxed his pose, and pushed his hair back from his eyes. “I expect you will need time to think it over. We will launch tomorrow morning. I’ve arranged guest quarters for you, if you would like to retire to them for now.” Kircheis stood up from his chair, and Reuenthal and Mittermeyer followed suit quickly.

“Your Excellency, you already know my answer,” Reuenthal said. “However, I will wait for Mittermeyer’s decision to confirm it.” The admiral nodded, and Reuenthal bowed slightly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: things get horny in this chapter and the following one.

The quarters that Kircheis led them to were separate suites, but thankfully adjoining. The ship was operating with the skeleton crew assigned for the admiral’s personal use, and so there seemed to be almost no one around—Mittermeyer was happy to see that, as it allowed him to follow Reuenthal into his quarters with impunity.

Before they entered, Reuenthal asked, “Are we expected to be present for takeoff tomorrow?”

“Your presence would certainly be welcomed, but I think Lord Reinhard will understand if you would rather sleep in.” Kircheis winked at them, gave them a quick salute, and strolled away down the corridor back towards the admiral’s suite.

Mittermeyer collapsed with a sigh into one of the armchairs while Reuenthal rummaged for something in the kitchen. He emerged with a bottle of wine and two glasses, and perched himself on the edge of the table in front of Mittermeyer.

“I thought it was my turn to choose the wine,” Mittermeyer said.

“There are extenuating circumstances.” Reuenthal poured them both glasses. Mittermeyer reached for his and gulped half of it down. He already felt relaxedly content from dinner, but he could easily be more drunk. His thoughts were churning.

“So, you’ve already decided,” he said eventually, swirling the liquid in his second glass. They had both removed their uniform coats, and had been sitting together in a comfortable silence in their shirtsleeves for about ten minutes.

“Oh? Decided what?” Reuenthal’s body language had loosened significantly now that they were alone and drinking, and his pose was open and warm, leaning back on his hands on the table.

“To support Müsel. In his… whatever this is.”

“It was part of what I offered him when I originally went to him for help.”

“Did he ask you then?”

“No, I brought it up myself. I did some research into his background and career—if you put all of the gossip together, it’s clear that he has unusual ambitions. If he only wanted power in the Kaiser’s court, he wouldn’t have gone for a military career. If he was simply anti-Imperial, he would have defected to the Alliance. I thought the loyalty of one or two especially talented officers would be a fair incentive for him to help you.”

“So, you’re saying you bargained with your oath to the Kaiser for my freedom? Reuenthal, what were you thinking?” Mittermeyer demanded, incredulous.

“At the time, I thought that I would let the Empire itself crumble to have you back at my side.” Reuenthal’s voice was flat, and he wasn’t meeting Mittermeyer’s eyes. “It’s not like I have anything to lose, anyways.”

“And you think I don’t either? I have a _wife,_ Oskar. Fuck.” He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “Fuck, I forgot I need to call her too. I’ll have to do it in the morning, I’m too drunk now. God, I’m a terrible husband.”

“I’m sure you’re not,” Reuenthal said, but his voice was strained. Mittermeyer didn’t want to press the issue, didn’t want to talk about Eva with him right now. He felt bad enough already, too badly to handle the tangled web of anxieties that his marriage raised, and so he tried to push her out of his mind. It was easy for him to do so with Reuenthal right there, he thought guiltily.

“Is it even possible?” Mittermeyer asked eventually. Reuenthal, mercifully, understood that he was talking about Müsel.

“Of course it’s possible. It’s merely sheer inertia that the Goldenbaum dynasty has lasted so long, really.”

“Including conquering the Alliance? They have never been defeated by us before.”

Reuenthal shrugged. “That’s only because we haven’t taken any particularly unique approaches in the last hundred and fifty years. Their whole existence is built off us resisting us, but in a very specific way, and it would only require a strategy that was sufficiently novel to shake them up enough to destroy them. I can’t imagine what Müsel’s thinking, but from what I’ve seen of his methods, I believe that he would be able to come up with something.”

“And he’s close to having the necessary power to carry it out.” Mittermeyer leaned back in the chair and sighed. “I sound like an idiot, I’m sure. I just… never considered this kind of thing as something I’d be involved in.”

“Me neither, to be honest. Even I have been too conditioned by the Goldenbaum regime to ever seriously think about this before I encountered Müsel.” Reuenthal was frowning slightly at his wine, as if deep in thought, or slightly annoyed. “I couldn’t have come up with this degree of ambition on my own. He has a… drive that I lack. The way I see it, I might as well cling to his coattails as he changes the course of history.”

“Do you think he can do it? Honestly.”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Mittermeyer stared at Reuenthal’s face, trying to gauge his sincerity. Reuenthal had a reputation as unreadable and mysterious among most people of his acquaintance, but Mittermeyer found that hard to relate to. He secretly likened Reuenthal to the chill hydrometal surface of a space fortress—seemingly an impenetrable, unbroken shell, but if one paid close enough attention to the patterns of the ripples and reflections, one could get a sense of the great structures beneath. Right now, he felt like he was seeing the mirrorlike waves draw back to reveal the forbidding metal ribs of the fortress, and he was looking into the crackling, blazing energy of its most powerful gun.

“What about you? What does the Sturm Wolf think?”

Mittermeyer took a deep breath, slightly shaken by Reuenthal’s intensity. “I don’t know. It feels… it feels _right,_ to say yes, I don’t know why.”

“Your instincts are good. You should trust them.”

“I trust them, and I trust you. That should be enough.” He looked at the ceiling. Reuenthal’s voice was deep and confident. It seemed to reduce the question down to a simple choice—to continue his life the way he’d always thought he would, in a safe and predictable way, or to follow Reuenthal. Wasn’t that what he wanted to do, had always secretly wanted? Wasn’t it only fear, maybe coupled with a lack of real opportunity, that kept him from admitting to himself what was really in his heart? “I suppose, too, if his goal is to unite humanity under his banner, there would finally be peace. And he wants to end the corruption and injustices of the Goldenbaums and their followers. I can’t deny that would be a good thing…” 

“Nothing to lose, and everything to gain,” Reuenthal said. “Don’t forget that, if he keeps his word, we’d end up in a far better position than if we just kept our heads down and kept going along as usual under the current regime.”

“How self-centered of you,” Mittermeyer muttered, but Reuenthal was right. Neither of them were politically suitable for higher positions in the military as things stood—Mittermeyer was from a commoner’s family, and Reuenthal had been disowned by his. And, he couldn’t say for sure, but he thought he’d heard whispers of some officers in Military Intelligence being suspicious of Reuenthal’s sexuality, which would certainly be an obstacle if he tried to hold any especially high offices.

“It’s not just that,” Reuenthal protested. “I’m sure you caught his meaning when he said he would institute reforms that would be beneficial to us. Besides—” He leaned in, flashing a smile. “—admit it, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the sound of ‘Marshal Wolfgang Mittermeyer.’”

“It has a nice ring to it,” Mittermeyer said, grinning despite himself. “But so does ‘Marshal Oskar von Reuenthal.’”

“I’m sure there’s room for both of us in Müsel’s vision. Also, I’m not going to pretend that I only have a political interest in all this; _he_ is a man who I would not mind calling _Mein Kaiser._ ” Reuenthal’s voice went low, just to the edge of seductive. Mittermeyer took a deep breath. (It had been too long since anyone had touched him.)

“Oh? Should I be jealous?” he said, teasingly. Reuenthal smiled wide.

“No, no, I doubt His Excellency has looked anywhere other than Siegfried Kircheis in his whole life. I could never compare.” He leaned back on the table and kicked one of his long legs up, resting a booted foot on Mittermeyer’s thigh. “Still, can _you_ say you don’t find him attractive? I saw the look on your face all throughout dinner.”

“Of course he is, but I suspect what you actually want me to say is that I could never even _think_ about any man other than you,” Mittermeyer said, grinning and relaxing back into his chair as he mentally put aside the question of Müsel. It was far easier to think about the attractive man in front of him than the (admittedly, equally beautiful) admiral and his offer. He put his hand on Reuenthal’s ankle to stroke the smooth softness of the leather.

“Oh, I know that already.” Reuenthal’s foot slipped, slowly, until he was resting it against Mittermeyer’s groin. He caught his breath, but tried to stay still, pretending to be unaffected. “I hope you didn’t miss me too terribly.”

“I was managing. It would have been rough if you’d taken much longer,” Mittermeyer said lightly, trying to keep his voice level even as he felt himself growing hard against the pressure of Reuenthal’s heel. He leaned forward and ran his fingers along the inside of Reuenthal’s calf, searching for the zipper of his boot. As he unzipped it, Reuenthal shivered slightly, and Mittermeyer smiled.

He pulled the boot off gently and let it carelessly drop to the floor, watching Reuenthal as his face flushed. Mittermeyer tapped his left thigh, and Reuenthal obediently placed his other foot there.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner.”

“It’s fine. You came just in time, really.” Mittermeyer removed the second boot and gripped Reuenthal’s knee. He didn’t particularly want to think about the circumstances he’d just escaped, and dug his fingers into the black fabric. Right now, he needed a distraction from it, a lightning rod grounding him back in reality and happiness. He needed to feel truly and properly reunited with his lover of five years. He needed someone’s attention and desire, real desire, focused on him. He needed to feel wanted.

He needed Reuenthal.

Mittermeyer tugged on the fabric he held clenched in his hand, and Reuenthal stood and settled into his lap, in one beautiful, fluid motion.

It was almost an awkward position, considering Reuenthal was significantly taller and lankier than Mittermeyer, but the ostentatiousness of Imperial design served them well, in that there was just enough room in the chair to fit Reuenthal’s knees on either side of Mittermeyer’s hips. They pressed their bodies together, just as they had earlier that day in Admiral Müsel’s car, clinging to each other as if they could somehow become one person. It was hard to say who initiated it, but eventually, they parted just enough for their mouths to meet, and they desperately, messily kissed. Mittermeyer reached up and pushed his hand into Reuenthal’s short hair, pulling him back for a moment to look at his face. His pale cheeks had a crimson tint to them, and his normally piercing gaze was foggy with arousal. It looked good on him—Mittermeyer stared at him for a long time, soaking in his expression. The habitually stoic contours of his face had softened into something pleading and blissful, and there was saliva shining on his parted lips, already red from being bitten. He was so beautiful, Mittermeyer thought: his sharp cheekbones, his elegant nose, the little crease between his brows that always faded when he looked at Mittermeyer, the way both his eyes glittered in contrast with each other. It was hard to not stare at him, openly, for hours, when they were in public together. He loved Reuenthal. It was by no means the first time that he’d had that thought, but it always came to him like a revelation when he felt it so strongly and purely, with no hesitation or concerns. He was unbelievably lucky to know him, to call a man like Reuenthal _his._

“What are you smiling about?” Reuenthal teased, his voice low and soft.

“You,” Mittermeyer said, smiling wider. He brushed a few strands of Reuenthal’s dark hair back behind his ear, and cradled his cheek in his palm. “My savior from the evil nobles. I was waiting all that time for _you_ , Oskar.”

“Do I get some kind of hero’s reward for my daring rescue?” Reuenthal brought his hand to Mittermeyer’s, and gently wrapped his long fingers around his wrist. Mittermeyer let him guide his hand towards his mouth. Reuenthal kissed each one of his knuckles, a passionate, lingering version of the brisk and formal way Mittermeyer had seen him kiss the hands of noblewomen. It made him shiver, and he moved his hand so he could run two fingers over, and then between, Reuenthal’s lips. Reuenthal made a small, almost pathetic, noise, and leaned in to take his fingers deep in his mouth. Mittermeyer felt a blaze of arousal swirl through him at the feeling of the hot wetness of Reuenthal’s throat clenching on his fingers. He put his head back and moaned aloud. Teeth grazed his knuckles as Reuenthal, breathing heavily, brought his hand away. The coffered ceiling above him seemed to fade and darken, and he pulled himself upright to cling to Reuenthal and kiss him again, fiercer this time.

They clumsily tugged at one another’s clothes. Reuenthal was, somehow, more coordinated, and managed to get most of Mittermeyer’s shirt unbuttoned, and had his hand on his chest while Mittermeyer struggled to unbuckle his belt. Frustrated, Mittermeyer leaned forward, unbalancing Reuenthal from his already precarious position on his lap. It was only Reuenthal’s quick reflexes that saved them from disaster, as he caught himself on the armrests and lithely jumped to the floor. Mittermeyer rubbed his face and laughed, embarrassed.

“Sorry. Should we move to the bedroom?”

“A sound strategy.” Reuenthal nodded with mock seriousness, and turned on his heel and strode to the attached bedroom with the same authoritative air as if he was crossing the bridge of his flagship. Mittermeyer followed him, stopping only to kick his boots off in the doorway and cast his shirt aside. By the time he reached the bed, Reuenthal was already sitting back, unbuttoning his own shirt. Mittermeyer didn’t wait for him to finish before he climbed in bed to straddle him, and shoved him down by the shoulders. He noticed Reuenthal catching his breath at his forcefulness and smiled—it thrilled him to see this man who was normally so severe and confident to become flustered and submissive, and, better yet, to be the one responsible for compromising his usual poise. It thrilled him even more to know that Reuenthal enjoyed it too. Mittermeyer smiled even wider at the sound of Reuenthal’s slight whimper as he leaned forward and pinned him down to kiss him.

They lay there for a long moment, eyes closed and feeling each other’s breath on their faces, until Reuenthal shifted his hips, deliberately. Mittermeyer inhaled sharply at the motion, then moaned as Reuenthal ground against him again, and again. Panting, he pressed his head into the bedsheets next to Reuenthal’s shoulder, and then turned to kiss his neck. He traced his mouth along the familiar line where the edge of his uniform collar would reach, found a point just beneath that line, scraped his teeth across Reuenthal’s skin—at first lightly, and then hard enough to leave a mark. Reuenthal gasped, and his body tensed. His hands were at Mittermeyer’s waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his sides. Mittermeyer bit him again.

“Oh, fuck,” Reuenthal breathed, and started rocking his hips against Mittermeyer’s once more—not the slow grinding he’d been doing earlier, but a needy and aggressive rutting. Mittermeyer groaned and allowed himself to move instinctively in response, pushing his pelvis back in tandem with Reuenthal’s thrusts. He bowed his head to rest it on Reuenthal’s chest, letting the sensations pour through him and overwhelm him. He could feel the movements of the layers of fabric, shifting and sliding back and forth, and underneath that, their bodies pushing hotly against each other and their erections rubbing together. It was tantalizing, not real contact, but somehow it was everything. Each synchronized thrust, every time that hardness pressed up against him, with the taste of skin and sweat and Reuenthal in his nose and mouth, felt like drowning. There was nothing but a heat spilling up from his groin (which was now, too, undefined and overwhelming—he was painfully aware of his dick at the same time that he had no dick, just a burning, throbbing tangle of nerves that needed to be touched) and inundating his whole being. He couldn’t piece together a single coherent thought, just _fuck_ and _Oskar_ and _I’m close—_ the waves of arousal were building, rushing towards something as he moaned and trembled. It had been _so long_ since anyone had touched him.

And Reuenthal’s hands were now all over him, constantly moving to new places: tangled in his hair, holding the back of his neck, gripping his thighs and ass, clawing his back. Mittermeyer whined at the gentle sting of fingernails scraping at his skin, forgetting the events of earlier that day.

Real pain blossomed across his back as Reuenthal’s fingers caught on the blistered edge of his burn. He yelled, involuntarily, and sat up, instantly wrenched back into reality. Mittermeyer cautiously reached around to investigate it, but there were aching lines of fire spreading between his shoulderblades and he couldn’t touch it without wincing.

Reuenthal’s triumphant smirk disappeared quickly once he realized Mittermeyer had cried out in pain and not ecstasy. He sat up as well, unconcealed worry on his face.

“Are you alright? What happened?”

“Yeah. I think you scratched my burn. Sorry.” The pain was receding, thankfully.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing, not you. I forgot it was there.”

“I did too, it’s not your fault. We were both distracted.” Mittermeyer grimaced. He couldn’t quite reach the wound, and clumsily pulled himself off of Reuenthal, twisting his back towards the other man. “Can you see if it’s bleeding or anything?”

Reuenthal looked at his back, longer than was probably absolutely necessary. His fingers delicately traced around the edge of the burn, then lingered reassuringly at the small of his back.

“Not really. I think I just peeled some skin off. I’m sorry.”

Mittermeyer sighed. The disdainful faces of Baron Flegel and his cronies had been fully driven from his mind since he left the prison thanks to Reuenthal’s presence, but now their unpleasant, smug visages had returned to his thoughts in full force. He felt sick.

“You might have an impressive scar, at least,” Reuenthal said, tenderly. Something in his voice suggested that he noticed Mittermeyer’s sudden withdrawal. His hand moved around to Mittermeyer’s chest. “Want to pick up where we left off?”

“Uhhh…” Reuenthal brushed his nipple, sending a pleasurable chill through Mittermeyer’s body—but that was it. Being reminded of his injury (and, by extension, the imprisonment and execution he’d only just escaped from) had a comparable effect to dousing him with a bucket of cold water, no matter how close he’d been to orgasm. Instead, he was left with his back stinging and the beginnings of nausea tugging at his stomach. Reuenthal was doing all he could, kissing his neck and shoulder and letting his hand wander into his unbuttoned pants, but Mittermeyer just felt… bad. He shook his head.

“Are you sure?” Reuenthal was stroking him, gently, and part of Mittermeyer was more than happy to concede that it felt _very_ nice. Another part of him, however, was anxious and uninterested, to the point of feeling vaguely repulsed by Reuenthal’s attention. He felt as if he had been shocked back into the nervous and defensive mental state he’d taken refuge in for the past month; metaphorical blast doors had come down around any sources of physical or emotional vulnerability, and something in him shied away from the intimacy that Reuenthal offered. Secretly, Mittermeyer was terrified that if he opened himself up again, he would only collapse into a shaking, sobbing wreck before Reuenthal could make him come.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Mittermeyer said, ashamedly, and Reuenthal reluctantly withdrew his hand. “I think…” He took a deep breath. “I think it was just that it reminded me too much of the—this whole affair. I’ll feel better later.”

Reuenthal made a low, sympathetic noise and lay back down. His expression was gentle, but when he eventually spoke, his voice had an edge to it.

“I should have killed that baron when I had the chance.”

Mittermeyer didn’t respond, although some of his unplaceable anxiety receded at Reuenthal’s protectiveness and righteous anger. He briefly dragged his hand over his face, and then settled himself down next to Reuenthal, laying his arm across the other man’s stomach. Reuenthal took his hand.

“It’s unfortunate that I couldn’t get you off,” Reuenthal said eventually. He had, after a momentary awkward struggle, managed to get his free arm around Mittermeyer and was twisting his dark blonde hair around his fingers.

“It is... I was close, though. And remember, we do have the rest of the trip to make up for it,” he replied, trying to inject a hint of levity into his voice. Reuenthal pulled him close.

“Oh? Does that mean I get your undivided attention for the next week?” He kissed Mittermeyer on the forehead.

“Of course.” Mittermeyer nuzzled his broad chest.

Reuenthal continued to play with his hair silently for another few minutes, and then murmured, almost hesitantly, “For my part, I _am_ still… up for this…”

“Shocking.”

“I know. Would you want to—”

“Yeah, I don’t mind.” The speed of his own response almost surprised Mittermeyer. The strange reluctance he seemed to have towards his own pleasure didn’t seem to come into play if he was thinking about Reuenthal. He half-lifted himself and leaned over to kiss him.

Reuenthal’s grip on his hand tightened and he let out a soft whimper as Mittermeyer pushed his tongue into his mouth. Mittermeyer squeezed his hand back before pulling away to blindly seek out the buttons on Reuenthal’s pants with deft fingers. He found the bulge at his crotch, rubbed his palm against the tip of it with enough pressure for Reuenthal to whine at him, then lifted his hand to start undoing his pants.

Working with only his left hand as he was, he moved too slowly for Reuenthal, and he was pushed away after a few moments. Mittermeyer took advantage of his initiative to sit back and once again admire Reuenthal as he stripped naked before him. His legs were long and toned like the rest of him, all firm muscle arranged in graceful, almost sculptural lines. He had the powerful shoulders and chest of a man practiced in wielding an axe or sword, but the overall effect of his build was one of lean elegance, with his long limbs and narrow torso. Although dark, his hair was fine and sparse. Aside from the dense bristles under his arms and at his groin, and the line of short hair trailing up his belly, his pale skin looked smooth and unblemished. There were a few subtle brown scars scattered over his arms and legs—remnants of the rare times when his agility failed him in battle, or of other events that Reuenthal never spoke of. Mittermeyer wanted to kiss every inch of his body.

Reuenthal smiled at his attention as he lay back, languidly stretching out beneath him. Mittermeyer grinned and leaned over him, letting his hand slowly trace along Reuenthal’s inner thigh. He repositioned himself so that he was keeping Reuenthal’s legs spread with his knees, watching the other man’s expression change from smug anticipation to breathless desperation as he teasingly dragged a few fingers over the head of his cock. Mittermeyer looked at it for a second, admiring the pink tones of the thin, soft skin, and the way it felt in his hand.

“Please,” Reuenthal breathed. His cheeks were pink too.

“Please what?” Mittermeyer said idly, stroking his thumb over the head again. Reuenthal let out another wordless whine. “You’re usually so eloquent. What’s the problem?”

“Wolf…” A few of his fingers were already slick with fluid, but Mittermeyer wanted to draw this out. He moved his hand gently, barely touching his cock before withdrawing fully. Reuenthal closed his eyes and bit his lip.

“I’ve hardly touched you. Are you really so pathetic and needy that this—” He demonstrated again. “—is enough to make you incoherent?” It had taken Mittermeyer a long time to become fully comfortable with the kind of role Reuenthal sometimes wanted him to play, and even now a part of him squirmed in embarrassment at the idea of taking this performance seriously. But something about his current detachment helped the degrading words come easily, and any discomfort was quickly dispelled by Reuenthal’s obvious shudder of pleasure.

“Yes I am. Please, Wolf… Please make me— _ah._ Fuck…” In a final act of cruelty, Mittermeyer started delicately stroking him while Reuenthal tried to answer, delighting in the way his eyes rolled back in his head as he panted, struggling to recover some measure of composure and coherence. His fingers were digging into Mittermeyer’s thigh.

“Please make me come,” he finally managed, and in response Mittermeyer, grinning, thrust his hand under Reuenthal’s chin. Obediently, Reuenthal lifted his head to spit into his palm, meeting Mittermeyer’s eyes as he did. Their shared anticipation hung in the air, crackling, as they paused to look at one another. It was a short pause.

Mittermeyer pulled back his hand, now very wet, and laid it on Reuenthal’s cock again. He began the familiar motions, easier and faster with the lubrication—

“Fuck—” Reuenthal was tensing, arching his back. He wrapped his legs around Mittermeyer’s waist—

—searching for the right rhythm and pressure, then finding it—

—Reuenthal, breathless, gasping something unintelligible, Mittermeyer hearing something that could have been his name under his moans—

—and something hot shot into his hand, spilling out onto Reuenthal’s stomach. He collapsed with a sigh. Mittermeyer sunk his head onto Reuenthal’s chest, realizing that he was panting too. His heart was, unexpectedly, pounding.

Eventually, slowly, he rose again and looked down at the other man. Mittermeyer felt a strange emotion swirl through him, a confused mix of pride and possessiveness and disbelief, as he stared at Reuenthal beneath him, breathing hard and his torso glistening with sweat and cum. Just five or six years ago he never could have imagined that he would be doing this, that he could be happy doing this. And he was happy. Happier than he’d ever been before he met Reuenthal. He couldn’t make sense of it. Giving up on his knotted and tangled feelings, Mittermeyer leaned over to kiss Reuenthal warmly.

“It’s so good to have you back,” Reuenthal murmured. “My Sturm Wolf.”

Mittermeyer rose from the bed, trying to move on to the practical task of cleaning up. “I love you too.”


	4. Chapter 4

Windows in personal quarters on starships, as a general rule, did not have curtains. Some particularly lavish noblemen’s or high admirals’ ships might have them, as if to preserve an illusion of a planetside manor, but the darkness of space meant that such features were almost purely aesthetic and unnecessary. The glass did have some photosensitive technology that allowed it to dim in response to bright light, although this was more to defend against the searing glare of gunfire or of another ship exploding in close quarters. Thanks to this, Reuenthal was woken early by the dim gleam of dawn streaming in through his window.

He didn’t get up immediately, and just lay there for a long minute as he looked at the pale shapes of sunlight clarifying on the ceiling, waiting for the fog of sleep to lift from his body. It didn’t take long—he had slept better last night than he’d had in months, spent from the evening’s exertions and with Mittermeyer snoring softly in his arms. Reuenthal’s thoughts felt clear and knife-sharp. He sat up slowly, gently stretching, and looked over at Mittermeyer. His lover was still asleep, cocooned in the sheets with only his shaggy head of dark blonde hair visible. A surge of warm affection swelled through Reuenthal’s chest at the sight. Quietly, trying not to wake him, he pushed the sheets away and padded naked across the room to look out the window. The sun was just beginning to cast its thin bluish light over the trees. From the height of the great ship, Reuenthal could see the low ridges and their patchy forests for miles around, their shapes distinct in the clear air. The spindly, insubstantial silhouettes of the imported eucalyptus mingled with the fuzzy contours of the indigenous flora, and he could even see that the nearest trees were speckled with color: clusters of the small, dense fruit that had been appearing in shipboard meals all week.

The _Brunhilde_ was going to launch soon, back to Odin. He couldn’t feel any vibration through the floor from the engines, so it seemed they hadn’t begun the process yet. The trip would only take a week, and once they arrived, he would be drawn back into the ugly morass of intertwined Fleet politics and courtly tensions. His lip twitched involuntarily at the thought. Although, he mused, perhaps the developing alliance with Müsel and Kircheis would alleviate something of the pain associated with becoming enmeshed in the convoluted dynamics of the various Imperial hierarchies.

If Reuenthal hadn’t been impressed with Müsel before this, he certainly was now. The admiral had thrown himself with astounding zeal into the problem of freeing Mittermeyer. Although they had arrived at Ultima Thule on schedule, the warden had avoided meeting with them for several days, obviously disdainful of the “blonde brat.” They were instead foisted off onto a series of ineffectual subordinates, who all did their best to discourage them with the tangled weight of military bureaucracy. Müsel had as little patience for this tactic as did Reuenthal, and he eventually also refused to speak to anyone except Commander Orff himself. Technically, the warden could not ignore the chain of command, and should have released Mittermeyer as soon as his ranking officer told him to, but Orff was determined to make it as hard for them as possible. The admiral, Kircheis, and Reuenthal divided their time on the planet between gathering evidence on the invalidity of Mittermeyer’s original conviction and insisting in their meetings with Orff that they would not leave Ultima Thule until they got what they wanted. This latter argument, Reuenthal gathered, was based on the assumption that the commander would not want to deal with the scrutiny of his command that would result from an admiral being delayed due to his lack of cooperation, no matter what the original point of contention was, as well as wearing him down with repeated attacks. Perhaps surprisingly to an onlooker, Müsel never threatened to use his sister’s connection to the court by bringing the claim to the Kaiser, although that would have certainly given them much greater leverage in the debate, and the threat of the throne’s involvement hung constantly over the discussions.

Finally, the three of them had uncovered enough suspicious legal and financial trails to paint a sufficiently corrupt picture of the circumstances leading to Mittermeyer’s imprisonment. Admiral Müsel brought the evidence directly to Orff, and told the warden that if he did not arrange Mittermeyer’s pardon and release immediately, he would send it to Orff’s commanding officer and ask him why his subordinate was accepting prisoners based on bribery and illegal convictions. At that point, they had won, and it only remained to them to negotiate the terms of surrender. It was a sweeter victory than any military campaign Reuenthal had participated in. He had a half-serious fantasy of taking on the role of a triumphant general from ancient Earth, and sweeping Mittermeyer into his arms as his rightful prize, the fruits of his—and Müsel’s, of course—conquest.

This fantasy ended up coming true in a way, but under far worse circumstances than Reuenthal could have predicted. The three of them were directed to the solitary cell where Mittermeyer was being held, unaware that some of Braunschwieg’s allies had arrived there only moments before, all armed and with a professional torturer in tow. Reuenthal could not bring himself to consider what would have happened if they had come only a few moments later. As it was, Mittermeyer had been badly beaten, and he had to be carried, half-fainting, to the prison infirmary before they could leave. 

Reuenthal’s main concern during those few hours had been Mittermeyer, naturally, but he was continually heartened by the fact that his disgust at the baron had been mirrored on Müsel’s and Kircheis’ faces. The idea of putting up with the prejudices and sneers of the high admirals seemed, somehow, less daunting in the light of that memory.

The other saving grace of the travel time, he supposed, was that he had a week alone with Mittermeyer before reaching Odin. Uninterrupted time together was a luxury that they rarely had, especially now. Reuenthal was still hard-pressed to think of Evangeline Mittermeyer with anything approaching fairness and equanimity, even if by now he’d forgiven Mittermeyer himself for marrying her. If nothing else, it meant that they had to be as discreet on Odin as they did on the front, and sometimes even more so. Reuenthal was long used to keeping secrets, and being generally reticent and enigmatic, but sometimes he found himself unaccountably sick of having to creep about to do anything less platonic than going out for drinks. Another reason, perhaps, to support Müsel—although that would do little for Mittermeyer’s inexplicable commitment to the woman. Reuenthal shook his head and left the window for the adjoining bathroom.

Having made use of the head, he splashed water in his face and hair at the sink in an attempt to shake himself out of fruitless contemplation. There were a pair of dark bruises on his throat, unmistakable deep magenta bite marks. Reuenthal stretched his neck to the side to admire them. He touched the marks appreciatively, finding them still tender, and then rubbed his hand over his jaw. Some hormonal quirk had left him incapable of growing much of a beard, even if he had wanted one, which he did not. There was just enough stubble to catch at his fingers this morning. Even if it was hardly visible, his commitment to at least an appearance of respectability, coupled with some other, less-defined personal inclinations, made him rifle through the drawers for his electric razor.

By the time Reuenthal had finished, the low whine of the razor had been supplanted by a less obtrusive, but far more significant, hum of machinery. The ship’s engines had started; not the great stardrive itself, yet, but the huge sub-light maneuvering thrusters had begun their warm-up sequence. Since his ascendancy through the ranks up to Rear Admiral, the promotions coming hard upon each other’s heels over the past three years, it felt odd to not be on the bridge himself for the ship’s launch. Müsel and Kircheis would be there now, overseeing the preparations as the pilots and captain carried out their preflight checks and plotted their course, but he was now simply a passenger. It might have been disappointing, to be divorced from that position of authority, but there was nothing for him to do except spectate—which he could easily do from his quarters, without leaving either his bed or his lover.

The noise had partially woken Mittermeyer, and the other man was stretched prone across the bed when Reuenthal returned. He had partially disentangled himself from the sheets, leaving his back bare to the now-bright slash of sunlight from the window. The welt across it didn’t look any better than it had last night—a spreading bruise, turning his rosy skin an incongruously lovely shade of violet, around the blistered scarlet line where the whip had struck, standing out against the shapely contours of his muscular back. Reuenthal stared at him for a long moment, sorrowful.

Mittermeyer seemed to sense his attention, and with sleepy effort rolled over to look at him. He smiled broadly, although his eyes were half-closed still.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” Reuenthal said, unable to keep himself from smiling back. “How did you sleep?”

“Pretty well. Weird horny dreams, though.” Mittermeyer’s voice was slow and dull from sleep, but cheerful.

“I wonder what the reason for that could be,” Reuenthal said dryly as he came to stand over the bed. Mittermeyer laughed a little in response, and stretched cautiously. Involuntarily, Reuenthal took a sharp breath in through his nose, looking at him unblinkingly. There was very little covering him now.

The only thing that Reuenthal liked more than looking at Mittermeyer (naked) was touching him (in the same state). Despite their obvious difference in stature, it was common knowledge that the two of them were physical equals, but where Reuenthal was wiry and lithe, Mittermeyer was stocky and compact. Also unlike Reuenthal, he had just enough hair and innate body fat on his torso to give his form the appearance of softness—although, Reuenthal was slightly concerned to note, the latter seemed apparently diminished. His muscles, happily, still looked powerful underneath his dense blonde hair. He had none of Reinhard von Müsel’s statuesque, almost inhuman, elegance, but Reuenthal had to admit that he would be perfectly happy only admiring _that_ beauty from afar. He was attracted to Mittermeyer because of his genuine, earthly, wholly attainable handsomeness; there was an honest, masculine charm about his bearing that satisfied Reuenthal in a way that no other person had.

Mittermeyer sat up stiffly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and unknowingly upsetting Reuenthal’s just-formed determination to climb into bed and embrace him. He blinked at the view outside the window.

“We haven’t taken off yet?”

“No. The engines are still warming up, I think.” Reuenthal turned, looking at the trees, which were shivering and bowing in the wind created by the powerful air-exchange system that fueled the atmospheric engines. He fumbled momentarily for an estimate on the time until launch before ceding to his unfamiliarity with the _Brunhilde_. “It won’t be long though, probably.”

“I hope it’s soon. I can’t get off this planet fast enough.” Mittermeyer leaned back on his hands with a sigh. He hadn’t stripped fully nude last night as Reuenthal had, but only wore a pair of snug briefs, in plain gray cotton. They left little to the imagination. Reuenthal made a low noise of assent, and looked at him again, considering something, before folding his legs underneath him to sit on the floor in front of the bed. He crossed his arms across Mittermeyer’s knees, leaning forward and resting his chin on his forearms to gaze up at him. 

Mittermeyer placed a hand on his head to ruffle his hair, instantly disrupting its neat part. Reuenthal smiled, for once uncaring of his appearance, and reached for Mittermeyer’s downy stomach. He brushed a fingertip through the dense, soft curls of golden hair, following the trail up his belly and towards his chest.

“Do you want something?” Mittermeyer asked, light. The vibration of the engines mounted until they could be felt through the floor.

“Maybe.” Reuenthal let his finger trail back down, pulling his hand back as soon as he reached the waistband of his underwear. Mittermeyer, with a burst of movement belying his sleepy voice, seized his wrist before he could fully withdraw his hand. His grip was strong. Reuenthal caught his breath.

“I think you do.”

“I think you know very well what I want,” Reuenthal replied, looking up. Mittermeyer’s gray eyes were shining with excitement, and his face was flushed, but his expression was still and calm.

It was a deceptive level of poise, Reuenthal found out moments later, as Mittermeyer released his wrist only to grasp a handful of his hair and pull. Unresisting, Reuenthal let Mittermeyer drag him forwards and between his legs. Reuenthal inhaled, hungrily, as if he could taste Mittermeyer through the warm fabric he was pressed into. He felt something hard against his face under the cloth, and a low whine built in his throat, but the sound was smothered as Mittermeyer pulled him closer. With effort, Reuenthal shifted, nuzzling openmouthed at him and trying to gently scrape his teeth over that bulge, elated to be so restrained—and Mittermeyer yanked his hair back and pushed him bodily away.

Panting, Reuenthal leaned a shoulder against the bed. He felt aflame. Mittermeyer stood and stepped over him. His body was dark against the huge, bright window. Reuenthal limply looked up as the ship lurched, once. The trees behind Mittermeyer started to drop away.

He couldn’t watch the takeoff for long: Mittermeyer was standing over him, his hand in Reuenthal’s hair. Obediently, Reuenthal opened his mouth.

Mittermeyer’s first thrust went deep, deep into his throat. Reuenthal almost gagged, and his body jerked in surprise and arousal. He moaned, quietly, when Mittermeyer had withdrawn enough for him to make noise. The second thrust only filled his mouth, and Mittermeyer’s grip was loose on his hair, so Reuenthal started to move his head, letting his lips slide up and down the length of his dick, sucking gently. The salty-sweet taste of skin and sweat and precum was hot on his tongue.

“Oskar…” Mittermeyer said, low. Reuenthal paused to look up at him, just a moment. Mittermeyer’s face was flushed crimson. From below, he looked even stronger and more domineering. His firm pink nipples, and the faded white scars crossing his chest just beneath them, stood raised against his skin. It was a good angle.

His hair was seized again, tight enough to hurt. Reuenthal only had time for a small whimper before Mittermeyer forced his head forward. He could feel a line of saliva running down his chin as Mittermeyer’s cock filled his mouth and throat. His nose was buried in thick blonde hair, the same furred, vaguely arrow-shaped patch he’d admired earlier, and he shivered. He felt like an animal in the throes of some primal heat, driven mad by the scent of its mate. Mittermeyer steadied himself with a knee against Reuenthal’s shoulder, pressing him back against the bed, and started moving his hips as the light from the window began to dim.

Reuenthal lay useless and exhilarated while Mittermeyer fucked his throat. He had a hand on the back of the other man’s thigh, clinging to him weakly, and the fingers of his other hand were digging white-knuckled into the carpet, but it was all he could do just to keep himself half-upright and breathing, and to keep his teeth out of play. He could think of no better position to be in. To just sit there underneath him, his head held in place—his only purpose to be a warm mouth for his lover to use, to take out his frustrations on—Mittermeyer unheeding of how he choked and gagged, fucking him harder and harder—Reuenthal nearly came then and there, without even touching himself.

He was only vaguely aware of the change in the background drone of the ship’s engines, the shift in the frequency of the vibrations that meant the sublight thrusters had just took over, when it happened. The only sensations he could pay attention to were Mittermeyer: his breathy moans, his hips shaking, the taste of his cock as it slid back and forth over Reuenthal’s tongue. The queasy shifting of gravity as the stardrive engaged barely registered. If he had noticed, it would have been instantly driven from his mind by the way Mittermeyer’s body, suddenly, went stiff, and he seized Reuenthal’s hair with both trembling hands. Gasping, he forced Reuenthal’s head down and forward again. He was chokingly deep. Reuenthal tensed, preparing, and then his mouth and throat were flooded with cum, warm and ocean-salty.

Mittermeyer held him there for a moment, slumping against the bed. Reuenthal had to make a strangled sound to catch his attention again. Sighing, he pulled away, and Reuenthal straightened up, panting for air. He let whatever he hadn’t been able to swallow drip into his hand, and leaned back to look at Mittermeyer, who had collapsed on the bed.

“Wolf?”

“Mmm?”

“Can you get me a towel, or something?” Groaning good-naturedly, Mittermeyer lifted himself back up and fished the dirty towel from the previous night out of their piled clothes. As Reuenthal fastidiously cleaned his hand and mouth, Mittermeyer stared blankly out the window. It now only showed the familiar blackness of space, too close to Ultima Thule’s sun for stars to show properly, with the planet itself a receding marble of blue and gold. Mittermeyer absorbed the view for a few seconds, then clapped his hand to his forehead.

“Shit. Are we still within FTL comms range?”

Reuenthal stretched languidly, blinking up at Mittermeyer. His mind felt sluggish and vacant, but pleasantly so. It took him a long moment to pull his thoughts away from the glowing memory of Mittermeyer pushing his cock to the back of his throat, and the delicious saltiness still in his mouth, to process the question. “I think so. It looks like we haven’t warped yet.”

“How long? And can I use your visiphone?” Mittermeyer was frantically dressing.

“Based on when we came in… It should be about half an hour to the warp-out point, if I remember correctly,” Reuenthal said, deciding not to comment on the fact that Mittermeyer was buttoning up a shirt that looked several sizes too big for him. He was about to ask who Mittermeyer wanted to call and why, but then he belatedly remembered Evangeline, and bit his tongue. “And yes, there should be one just off the office.”

“Thanks. You don’t know what time it is in the capital on Odin, do you?” Reuenthal could hardly keep the galactic time-difference equations straight when he _hadn’t_ just been fucked nearly into senselessness, so he only shook his head wordlessly. Mittermeyer shrugged. “Ah well, I’m sure I’ll wake her up if it’s late there.”

He stared despairingly down at the looseness of his shirt, shook his head and tucked it into his pants, and nodded thanks to Reuenthal before dashing out of the bedroom. Reuenthal sighed.

More slowly than Mittermeyer, he rose and dressed himself, taking a moment to tie on a neckcloth (a nice, soft lavender one, a gift from some noblewoman whose name he entirely forgot) to hide his bruised throat. Half-listening to the ringing from the office, he went to the kitchenette and made two coffees—with cream for Mittermeyer, and black for himself. Reuenthal carried them over to the office, and hovered outside the door, shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Yes, I’ll be home in a week,” Mittermeyer was saying. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be more in touch—did you get any of my letters after that first call?”

“No, I didn’t.” That was Evangeline. She sounded as relieved to see her husband as he’d felt the day before, Reuenthal grudgingly thought, although her shrill accents still got on his nerves. “Did you get any of mine?”

“No—those bastards. They must’ve stopped my mail, eventually.”

Evangeline laughed. “It’s alright, my letters weren’t important. Just gossip from the girls at work. Apparently, Baroness Westpfale wants to commission a new pool for her estate, but surrounded by statues depicting some especially scandalous myth. Everyone is very opiniated about it.”

“What are you talking about? That would be the most important kind of news I could have received in there. It would’ve taken my mind off of the whole situation.” Reuenthal fought hard against the rising tide of jealousy within him at the tenderness and love in Mittermeyer’s voice. It took all his effort not to deliberately drop the beautiful, fragile porcelain cup of coffee on the floor to shatter.

He was distracted by the sound of his own name in the conversation. “Did Admiral von Reuenthal get you out, like you said?” Evangeline asked.

“He did,” Mittermeyer said brightly. “He went to Admiral von Müsel—I think I’ve told you about him—and they intervened with the prison. It was close, but…”

Reuenthal took that as his cue to enter. Mittermeyer was seated at the desk, looking at his wife on the large visiphone screen. Smoothing his face into a neutral expression, Reuenthal set the coffee down at his elbow. “Oh, did I hear you two talking about me? A pleasure to see you, Frau Mittermeyer.”

Mittermeyer flashed him a quick, nervous smile. Evangeline nodded respectfully to him, her frizzy halo of white-blonde hair bouncing as she did.

“Admiral Reuenthal, I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done for my dear Wolfgang,” she said, beaming at the two of them.

_It certainly wasn’t for_ your _sake,_ Reuenthal thought, but he said, “I could not have borne it if he’d been left to rot there. I am afraid the galaxy would be a far darker and more lifeless place without dear Wolfgang in it.” He reached down to squeeze Mittermeyer’s shoulder, and left his hand there for a moment, ignoring the incredulous glance he received.

“I agree. Wolf, I hope you know how lucky you are to have such a good friend in this man.”

“Er—yes—he’s wonderful—I mean, I do, I am lucky,” Mittermeyer said wretchedly, looking back and forth between Evangeline and Reuenthal. Although a vindictive part of him delighted in making Mittermeyer squirm, Reuenthal couldn’t be truly angry at him for very long, under the current circumstances. He gave Mittermeyer one last touch on the upper arm—the kind of touch that looked friendly enough from the outside, but the affection behind it was more than that—and nodded politely to Evangeline.

“Well, I’ll be outside. There hasn’t been any summons to breakfast, so I assume we’re free to eat on our own.”

“Very good.” Mittermeyer took a sip of his drink and smiled warmly up at him. “Thanks for making coffee.”

“Of course,” Reuenthal said, and left, not trusting himself to say anything more to either of them.

He sat at the desk in the adjoining office with his coffee and pulled out the computer, in need of distraction. Mittermeyer’s voice was still audible, if muffled, through the door. Reuenthal started browsing through the military news and intelligence reports that he had access to, a habit that he had been too preoccupied to keep up over the past few weeks. It was a relatively easy task to piece together the overarching strategy of the High Admirals before any plans were announced, if one paid close enough attention to the details of personnel reassignments and the flow of supplies—a slightly harder business with the Alliance, but more often than not there was enough to read between the lines for Reuenthal to make educated guesses about their movements. The information engrossed him for the next twenty minutes, until the gravity went disorientingly awry for a second, and Reuenthal looked up to see a brief and brilliant rainbow of color flashing by the window as the ship warped. When it was over, Mittermeyer came out of the visiphone room, biting his lip. Whether it was from the effects of the warp or from his conversation with Evangeline, Reuenthal had no idea.

“It seems like the Alliance is planning another incursion into the Iserlohn Corridor, likely in the fall,” he said as Mittermeyer sat down across from him.

“What, they’re still not tired of getting beaten there?” Mittermeyer said, wry. “Do you think we’ll be mobilizing?”

“Probably. Almost definitely if we’re under _his_ command.”

Mittermeyer nodded, but didn’t reply, only stared out the window again. It looked now out onto a starry darkness, hundreds of light-years away from where they had been moments ago. The stars crawled past slowly as they continued down their course at a large fraction of light-speed, headed for the next zone of space where warp was properly possible.

“I wish you wouldn’t embarrass me like that in front of Eva,” he said eventually, not looking at Reuenthal.

“Oh? How did I embarrass you?”

“I mean—you were touching me, I don’t know. You were just acting… weird and it got me flustered, I guess.”

“I like seeing you flustered.”

Mittermeyer exhaled hard through his nose. “I know you do. And I don’t mind, exactly, but doing it while I’m talking to my wife? It’s easier when you and she are just, you know, separate spheres of my life.”

“You can’t compartmentalize things that easily,” Reuenthal said, carefully neutral.

“I know. I just hate that I have to.” Mittermeyer scowled at his coffee. Reuenthal was silent, letting him re-articulate the long-familiar problem. Eventually, Mittermeyer continued, “If I’m reminded of you when I’m with her, I feel like I’m being unfaithful to you, and when I’m reminded of her when I’m with you, I feel like I’m being unfaithful to her. I love you both, and I guess it’s working out now for the most part, but…” He shrugged, and pinched the bridge of his nose, his mouth twisted in pain.

“Have you told her anything?”

“Of course not. I can’t imagine how she would react.” Mittermeyer toyed with his coffee cup, rotating it slowly on the table by the handle. “I mean, I’ve thought about it. It would make things easier if I didn’t have to keep secrets. If everything was out in the open.”

Reuenthal couldn’t pretend to know Evangeline well at all, but he could guess what her response would be, and he privately thought it wouldn’t be bad for him at all. “I could tell her for you.”

“Reuenthal!” Mittermeyer said sharply. He seemed genuinely upset, so Reuenthal shrugged in a placating way.

“I was joking.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“You’re right, of course. My apologies—it was an inappropriate joke to make.” Reuenthal hoped he sounded appropriately contrite. Mittermeyer, after staring out the window for another long moment, finally looked back at him. Inordinately relieved, Reuenthal gave him a small smile, and pushed his chair back to stand. “Shall we go to breakfast?”

Mittermeyer nodded, and stood as well. They returned to the bedroom to put their uniform jackets on; Reuenthal cringed inwardly at the state of Mittermeyer’s jacket, wrinkled from spending the night crumpled on the floor. He wished there had been time to send it away to be pressed, but then again, it was only breakfast, and it seemed unlikely that they would encounter Müsel and Kircheis. A little of Mittermeyer’s worried expression faded when he saw once again the bruises on Reuenthal’s neck.

The halls were empty as they made their way to the officers’ mess, but Reuenthal waited until they were in the elevator, decidedly alone, to say anything further. “I don’t mean to push you for an answer you may not have yet, but have you given any more thought to the admiral’s proposal?”

“You really know how to pick conversation topics,” grumbled Mittermeyer. “We haven’t even had breakfast yet and you’re asking me if I’ve decided whether I want to commit treason. But yes, I have thought about it.” Reuenthal waited for him to elaborate, but he was silent until the elevator reached its destination. The doors slid open, but instead of stepping out onto the deck, Mittermeyer jabbed a hand at the control panel to close them again. He leaned back against the bulkhead, arms folded.

“Do you remember what you said to me after I proposed to Eva? That I was choosing the easy option?”

“I do.” Reuenthal looked at a different wall, away from Mittermeyer. He remembered the conversation—argument, really—with horrible clarity. It had been one of the few times that he had been completely sober after he learned about the engagement. What Mittermeyer was referencing now was only one of many cruel things they had both said. Guilt, as fresh as it had been three years ago, momentarily resurfaced to eat at him.

“And then—” Mittermeyer took a deep breath. “—remember what we talked about later? That we couldn’t—go down different paths, even if we tried?”

Reuenthal remembered that conversation clearly too, although the actual words used had been something more like, _I can’t live without you_ and _I’m never going to try and leave you again_ , said panting to each other on the floor of Reuenthal’s apartment the day after Mittermeyer had returned from his honeymoon. Reuenthal nodded, slow.

“I think it was stupid of me, back then, to think that I shouldn’t have tried to stay with you, even if it meant some things would be hard.”

“We both were stupid to think that,” Reuenthal said, looking back at Mittermeyer. He was gazing at Reuenthal again, his eyes steely with resolve, although his voice had been tentative throughout the conversation.

“Exactly. So maybe, this time, I should try not to repeat those mistakes. Especially for something that has far greater impact than our relationship.”

Reuenthal saw, in a sudden flash of insight, the parallel Mittermeyer was drawing. He _had_ pledged himself to another, without Mittermeyer’s input, and hoped that his lover would choose to stay beside him regardless, just as Mittermeyer had, at first, wanted them to at least still be friends once he was married. Then, it had taken several awful weeks for them both to realized that it was not in their best interests to suffer without one another, no matter what propriety and legality demanded. The difference here was not only, as Mittermeyer had articulated, the scale of the decision, but also the fact that they now had a chance to avoid misleading and separating themselves from the start. Reuenthal smiled, uncontrollably wide with sudden joy, at Mittermeyer, and reached for the button to re-open the elevator doors. They walked down the hall, side by side, to the officer’s mess. Before they entered, Reuenthal stopped and turned to Mittermeyer, still smiling.

“I’m glad you’re joining me.”

Mittermeyer smiled back. “Careful, I haven’t made any promises yet.”

“I know how it looks when I’ve successfully persuaded you into something.” Reuenthal opened the door for Mittermeyer, and they went to sit down to breakfast together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, again please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed it (or didn't, whichever)! 
> 
> I'm on tumblr @transhamlet where you can find more incoherent thoughts about this anime (of which I have many and i'm always looking for more excuses to express them).


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